Of Fridays and Pink Rabbits
by Mitternachtslied
Summary: "We'll sort everything out, and who knows what could happen?" - House/Wilson
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Neither the characters nor the song is our propriety and we are having no profit with any of this work.

**Pairing: **Hilson (James Wilson/Gregory House)

**Universe/Timeline: **House M.D. - Around the first seasons.

**Notes, warnings and tags:**

**- **English is not our native language and we have no beta reader. Corrections are very welcome, but be aware of it from the start.

- We mention scenes from the episodes of the first seasons, but not following a strict timeline.

- This fic is a Roleplay Adaptation, and there are more chapters

A shout-out to the part of the fandom that's still there and ships Hilson with us! If you guys are alive somewhere and want to give us a hello, we'd love it, and it will certainly be of great incentive for us to post more and faster. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Of Fridays and Pink Rabbits**

House enters Wilson's office, not even trying to hide his annoyance. The oncologist is packing his things, and the entire place is an organized mess of papers, books and personal belongings.

"Why did you take the blame? It was nobody's fault, he would die anyway. We did everything we could. Of course, you always blame yourself. You're addicted to feel guilty." His voice, exasperated, filled with sarcasm, sounds louder than it is in the deep silence of the room. His eyes, burning with a cold impatience, stare at Wilson, waiting for an answer, a harsh comment, anything. Wilson just glares at him, keeping his head low, the resented eyes shooting the other doctor from under his eyebrows.

"Well, _someone_ had to. And he was_ my_ patient. It was my responsibility, after all."He looks back at his belongings, his lips pressed in a thin line. "They won't let the hospital get away with this. And what else did you expect, House?" He clenched his fists and his teeth. "One day your recklessness would bring consequences we couldn't just find a way out."

"'My recklessness'? Oh, then it's my fault?" He walks to the desk and rests his hands over it, facing Wilson. "_I. Tried. To. Save. Him. _You know it better than me, he was dying, there was no cure. I thought that treatment would work, but it didn't. Give the woman a week or two and she'll realize she's acting stupidly. If it was 'my recklessness' that killed the patient, why didn't you tell Cuddy that? Or do you feel your guilty diminish when you take the blame when it's c_learly not your fault_? Go on, tell everyone, I don't care. I don't regret doing what I did. You're an idiot for trying to protect me. In fact, you're a bigger idiot than that stupid widow trying to blame someone for her husband's death." Wilson is looking over some papers, obviously trying to avoid the discussion, and that only makes House more irritated. "Stop pretending you're not listening and look at me!_"_

"No one is going to realize A DAMN THING!" He raises his voice louder than House's, and faces him with sharp eyes. "Elizabeth is not going to realize the 'stupidity' of her actions, because she thought she had another six months with her husband, and now he's dead without even saying a proper goodbye. You can't try to put sense into someone this hurt and feeling this betrayed, this is not how people work, if you don't know. Therefore, Cuddy won't ever realize the depth of this situation, because Elizabeth's lawyers are being really, _reeally_ convincing. And, finally, you won't ever come to terms with what I do and you also won't realize that _you. Made. A. Mistake."_

"You're not paying attention to a single thing I say." House's face is painted with indignant disbelief. "She knew from the beginning he was going to die, it's not as if I had just shot him in the head. I tried to save him, in case you weren't listening. Now you want to throw yourself from a rooftop because you feel guilty, like you always do. Why did you even become an oncologist? You know most of your patients are hopeless cases. Do you want an excuse to ruin your life? 'Oh, I couldn't save this terminal bold child, so I think I can make my life miserable because I failed, even if there wasn't a single thing to do.' You say my 'recklessness' killed him, and still you take the blame. Pathetic."

"A head is to roll, and, after all, I let you inside the case. It _is_ my fault. It's better off for the hospital anyway. You save lives and my patients are doomed to die anyway, so why bother, right?" Wilson's voice was filled with a level of sarcasm that didn't belong to his self. But then dis voice lowered and he swallowed hard. "Your mistake was that you did everything on your own, as always. You didn't trust me or anyone else. Your mistake wasn't that you tried to save him, but taking on my patient, because his case was _fun_ for you. You never thought of anyone else, you just decided. Today, it went wrong. You risked it all along and you never cared about what would be on your way." He pushed the box with books in front of him and leaned his hand in the desk where it was. "I do this because I want to help people, House, you do this to solve the enigma, to finish the puzzle." He pointed to his own chest, and his voice trembled for a second. "I want to be able to see the joy in someone's eyes when they are told they can live when there was nearly no hope, even though it costs me this much, or give them the best they can with the time they have left. But I can do this someplace else than Princeton-Plainsboro." He straightens his posture again. "or even New Jersey."

"You can't be serious. You can't just leave. I'm sure there's another way of..." House's eyes narrows a bit, as a thought crosses his mind. "Unless there's something else. You're giving up too easily, it can't be just guilt. What are you hiding from me, Wilson? What are you running from? And don't even try to change subject with another moral speech on how I'm a heartless monster with engines instead of brains or anything alike."

Fighting with Wilson always made House feel wrong, even if he was right, as it usually happened. All that situation was driving him mad, and it felt like trying to reason with a stubborn child speaking different languages, saying things he didn't really mean, misunderstanding and being misunderstood.

Wilson only laughs, as bitterly as possible.

"What's to resist in this situation? I am out. If I am not out, you are. This hospital needs you. I'd just hope that this makes you at least one small bit more careful or thoughtful of others, but that makes me really an idiot." He gives his back to pick one more of his belongings in the shelves. "I always hope too much, I always expect from you things that you just..." he sighs and carelessly throws something he can barely identify inside a box "that are not you."

"I never asked you to make sacrifices because of me. I don't need protection. I never needed. Do you want me to be careful and thoughtful? Do you want me to be responsible of my acts? Then stop packing your things and tell those stupid bureaucrats that it's all my fault. If you can take the blame for something you didn't do so placidly and confidently, why can't I do the same thing?" His leg bothers him, but he can't sit down in the middle of an argument without the feeling of defeat. "The hospital needs you just as much as me. This is ridiculous. Even the fact that we are having this conversation is ridiculous. Put your things back in the shelves, you're not going anywhere."

"Oh, _now_ you care. Now we are both running to Cuddy to take the bullet before the other one. Don't play the hero now, House, it's really not your type." The younger doctor lets out a trembling sigh "Neither mine, though, so don't bother. I am responsible for him, I told you. I just... it's just what I am supposed to do. I can't stay around with th-th-" he stutters and clenches his teeth "Forget it. It's comfortable for you with me here, right? Well, it's not your call anymore."

House almost smiled, satisfied for being right, but it wouldn't be of any help.

"I knew it. There _is_ something more. You're really running away from something. Funny you can't seem to be able to tell me, it must be really disturbing you then. What is it, Wilson? What is the terrible secret you must keep whatever it takes? Tell me, so I can save the effort of discovering by myself."

_"_Yeah, sure." Wilson points to the door, and his sarcasm is a caricature again "Get out of here, House. Go outside and bother everyone hunting out my reasons to go away, like I was quitting, like I have decided it for myself. Search in my previous medical or psychological records. There's surely something wicked to find, go do it your way and leave me alone."

_"_Oh, but you_ are_ quitting. You're holding on this chance of going away with an eagerness that I've never seen in you. And despite of that, you still look like you're leaving everything behind. You don't want to go away, still you want to, you need to, I just don't know why yet. "House scrutinizes Wilson's face, trying to find some hint. "Why can't you look me in the eyes, Wilson? Are you this mad at me? You're so far away from me that I can almost feel hurt."

That irony, the sarcasm, they were almost automatic for him. To relieve tension, or to pretend he didn't care, it was a way to be safe. He didn't like changes, and he didn't want to lose his friend that easily. He was pressuring Wilson, trying to find a way to make him stay. Maybe it was the wrong way to do so, but he couldn't think of another. When Wilson opens his mouth, he just takes another feeble breath.

"The thing is, you don't. You don't feel hurt. You don't and you won't, and also you won't understand me at all, never. Maybe you are right and I do need to go. Look at the mess you've made. I can't work like this, having you around." he corrects it too quickly "I mean, l-l-like a child to take care of. You are a problem for me. Maybe, I'm... relieved." the last sentence struggles out so painful out of Wilson's throat that it trembles, and, as he breathes in faintly, he closes a drawer violently, picking his things up clumsily again.

"Of course, how come I didn't think of that? I am the problem. You could have said it from the beginning." He straightens his position, and plays with his cane mindlessly. "You know, for a second I almost considered that you could be infatuated with me, but this would be so ridiculous that I could say sorry for even thinking about that." He smirks.

"Yeah, because what I fool I would be, right?" Every movement of his packing is more uneasy and rough than the other, and it would be easily noticeable that he wasn't even thinking of what he was doing. His mouth twists in weird smile for a second, and he goes on. "What sort of stupid, masochist, self-loathing idiot could be in love with you?"

House stops playing with his cane, but the smile in his lips remains, as if he was too shocked to take it off.

"You're kidding, right? Or are you too hypersexual that you started to think about me as a possibility?You know I like chicks, don't you?" _Stop talking_, his mind screamed, but he was too confused to listen, to understand. Every second seemed to worse the situation, and he didn't have time to think about anything.

"I'm not- Oh, God, just- Of course I know it, and I don't even-" He stops, leaning his hands on the desk and letting his head tilt down, closing his eyes. "Let it go, House. I'm losing my job already and I don't want to lose you. Actually, leave me alone. Don't jump to conclusions, it's not what you are thinking."

"You realize that 'It's not what you are thinking' have the same meaning of 'It's exactly what you are thinking but I don't want to talk about it', right?" House laughs out of pure uneasiness, not knowing what to do. "This is... Weird. Not weird like in weird, but surely... unexpected. I'm flattered, but... Well, wait some days, Cuddy won't just fire you like this." the awkward silence lasts some seconds "How didn't I see it coming? You have always been so solicitous, following me everywhere. But we can still be friends, sure."

Wilson is the one who laughs then. His heart is racing so fast he can hear it, blood throbbing so fast he could feel dizzy.

"Shut up, House. Just shut your mouth." He stares at House, and it feels like the hardest thing he had ever done. "Just so you know, all this you say, like you were the guy I want to go to the prom with, cut your crap. All I did, all I ever did for you I did because I care about you and I love you. Like a friend do. Like I'd feel and do even if it wasn't... different, for me now. And I could go on pretending if you cared about me just half as much, but I know you don't. Cuddy won't hire me back, and I need time. So just leave, I won't ask again."

"I..." Everything was falling to pieces, and House couldn't catch the running thoughts to put them together until they made sense. He needed time to understand it. Wilson looked defeated, heartbroken, and that pained him in a curious way. To know the look on his friend's face is just cold enough to hold the tears back. He felt like apologizing, still there was a billion chains keeping him from doing so. That gaze was just as sharp as those words, and House looks away for a moment, before leaving the room silently.

He shuts himself in his own office, and, after some Vicodins, he sits and begins to think about that talk, his own feelings towards Wilson and their friendship, for the first time with that perspective.

Wilson had a hard time getting up again when he let himself fall sit in his chair, his elbows in the desk and his face buried in his hands. _Great_, he just kept on thinking like a mantra, _you had just lost your job and your friend_. That was only what you were after, wasn't it, James? it was like he was testing how much time he could hold on without crying. He just hoped House didn't take it all as some sort of despicable joke and try to do something funny out of it - there wouldn't be anything in the world less worthy of a laugh that that. _Perhaps that was for good_, was the only thought that made him get up again, but the very same cogitation splintered his heart once again.

Moving on, moving out. That sounded like hope, but felt like damnation. Nevertheless, the step was taken, and there was no going back anymore.

...

It seemed no one would leave House in peace for some moments. First it was Foreman, more insufferable than ever, talking about something too unimportant for him to pay attention. Cameron and Chase appeared together an hour later, and Cameron started questioning him so fiercely that he felt even most tired than before. Then Cuddy, then, unbelievably, his new patient's mother, angry because of some allergic reaction her son had to the meds they gave him. Each time the door was open, he felt more and more frustrated, as if he was expecting Wilson to appear at any moment, making things clear as always, helping him to take some sense of all that situation. But Wilson wouldn't come this time. He feels angry with Wilson, for confusing him, but not really. House's angry with himself, for messing up everything and not having a solution.

"Dammit, Wilson. Why do you always have to complicate everything?" He throws the red ball across the room, but he can't throw frustration away.

...

Wilson really felt like he couldn't ever touch that door knob. It took him everything to walk to there, and yet he wanted to go away more than ever. But the day was nearly over and he wouldn't leave anything behind - so, like pulling a thorn out of its wound, he suddenly opened the door. House was alone there, as expected, and he entered.

"Hey, House. I came here-" He closed the door behind him, but didn't give any step in the other's direction. "You- don't need to say a thing, ok, I just... I came here to say a few things. I took the blame because I wanted to, and I never meant to put this huge information in your shoulders. I can't bear if you joke about it, but I won't be here tomorrow and I... I don't want to lose you as a friend when I go away. Even though I know it may be too much to ask, and eventually that's what will happen. But I'm not running from you and I am not relieved I am going. You are really, really important to me, and I suppose..." when he realizes he was talking too fast and too passionately, he stops himself and frowns, swallowing hard. "Can I ask you that now, only now, we pretend it never happened and shake hands in a proper goodbye?"

House doesn't look up immediately. His heart felt heavy, and his head was aching.

"So, you're really going away."

He still had to go to clinic, to hear endless speeches of hypochondriacs and overreacting mothers, to take care of fevers and sore throats. It seemed to be another reality entirely, despite being just some meters from his office. When his eyes meet Wilson's, his mind is blank. 'Proper goodbye', it didn't sound right. It felt so wrong, in so many levels that they would part. There's no dignity in goodbyes. No, he wouldn't say goodbye. Not now, not ever.

"You know you don't have to leave. You could stay... It's up to you." He sighs, and his eyes lose warmth, becoming cold like the surface of a frozen lake. "If you want to leave, then leave at once. There's nothing to be said if you've made up your mind."

"Fine." The word coughs out of Wilson's throat, voiceless, as if strangled his breath. He stares at his feet like waiting for them to respond and make him walk, and he turns his back. Before he reaches the door again, he stops once more. "I would say I'm sorry again, but it would sound like I am apologizing. I am not. It was also your fault, and you were always cruel and selfish. I can't regret what I said or what I am doing. But I am really sorry it turned out to be like this. It was... it was the best of times, here in the hospital with you. Even though you are an ass."

House just keeps staring at Wilson, rigidly, daring him to go away. He felt betrayed and left behind, and that wasn't easy for anyone, even less for him. Knowing that it was mostly his fault didn't help, too. The words thrown at him weren't any news - he was used to them, after hearing it so many times, from so many different mouths. It was a matter of time; sooner or later, everyone would say them. Wilson was running away, even though he kept saying otherwise. If he wanted so hard to leave everything behind, he wouldn't be in his way. Everybody leaves when they are given the chance, he thinks. It is a selfish thing to do, to behave like this and make others suffer, including himself. But his eyes don't soften the least bit.

"Are you finished? I thought you were eager to take the first plane to wherever you're going."

Wilson looks at House once again.

"Yeah." He smiles painfully, like his face could twitch when feeling something too bitter on his tongue. It wasn't much different from what he was waiting to hear, and no harder than anything before, but yet it hit him like he received an unexpected final punch in the stomach. And, this suffocated and breathless, he ended the sentence. "I'm finished. Goodbye, House."

Maybe there was something inside him waiting otherwise, waiting for something new and just a little less cold, for he was always hopelessly hopeful. But, already sure and feeling home inside his own broken heart, he gave his back again and walked out the room.


	2. Chapter 2

House waited for Wilson to leave his office before sighing loudly and resting his head on his hands over the desk.

It could be a metaphor about the forward days.

The rest of the afternoon passed agonizingly slowly, and he was barely there. He shouted at five different people in only thirty minutes, and two patients left the clinic crying profusely. It was unbelievable that three days passed in that situation - it both seemed like an entire calendar and like one long day with the same boring elements, with him being cruelly rude, too much even for him, to the same boring patients. House was bitterest than ever, and he knew perfectly why. He couldn't just let Wilson go away. He was the best part of him, his best friend, someone to whom he could just chat about anything at all, someone who made him feel better about himself, less miserable.

At one point, Cuddy interrupted a consult and sent the patient to another doctor, saving House from being punched in the face.

In the corridor, she pulled him by his arm before he left, and even her already categorical voice sounded overly commanding, like an order from a general.

"Go find Wilson before he leaves. You know that's the only thing you should have done from the beginning, so it's not a request. I have something up my sleeve to deal with the lawyers in this case, and we can work this out if he is really willing to. What I know is that it's impossible to work with you without him, and firing two of the best doctors of the hospital won't bring any good, even though they behave like children. Leave now, before I decide I'm just being too generous and sympathetic to you. "

His first reaction is to go to Wilson's place and tell the news - but something was holding him back. He had been too harsh and mean, and Wilson could as well refuse to stay after that. Halfway, he decides to go to his own place and pick some things before going to the other's.

Once there, House takes a deep breath before ringing the bell, holding a box, waiting for Wilson to open the door for him.

Wilson truly, really didn't expect it - he froze in front of the door when he glanced through the peephole. Through all the time he'd been home, alone, his house was getting bigger and bigger; emptier and emptier though he had barely put some of his stuff in the boxes. He realized soon enough the emptiness was inside him, and only the coldness shot at him in the afternoon was spreading through his veins. He hesitated only for a moment, something eternal among that amount of thoughts he had, mostly trying to put it into some sense. It was only to realize that opening the front door was then what he wanted the most in the entire world, and he did it, even though he had no idea what for.

"House?" he glanced at the box in his hands and then looked at his eyes again "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to give you back some things you left with me. You could need it, who knows." House says it carelessly, but his eyes are sparkling with some unknown animation. He doesn't wait for Wilson to invite him to enter and just walks into the room. "Oh, you're late with your packing. Maybe I can help you with this later. That is, if you want me to help." House sits on the couch, with the box on his lap, looking around."This is a good place, I can't believe you're giving up on it." As Wilson just remains at the door, with a bewildered expression, House sighs impatiently. "Come, sit here beside me, we don't have that much time. I'm sure you don't want to lose your plane, and there's still a lot to do, it seems. "

"The flight is not... now." Wilson answers, frowning. "Ok..." His lips mumbled. He wanted to reply properly, but seemed unable to, and his legs just responded to what could be a question or an order coming from House; it all seemed so surreal for him to tell. He closed the door and walked inside his own house like in a strange place, blindfolded, only by trust. As he sat, all the questions he didn't ask were in his dark brown eyes.

House opens the box and takes a splinter of wood from it.

"Do you remember this? You filed my cane and I fell on the floor when it broke. I don't need this memory if you're going away, so..."

House puts it back in the box and takes a book.

"This book you gave me on Christmas? Crap. I hated it. I was bored to death. I count it as one of my greatest victories in life, because finishing it was really torture. Now I don't have to keep it in my bookshelf, you can take it with you and I can put something really good on its place. And I could say the same thing about this movie, it's too cult for me. I like to see explosions and guns and motorcycles, not some four-hour drama about a girl and her music box." He places them back and picks a tie. "You know I hate this color. And this pattern, Wilson, really? Take it, I know how you appreciate your horrible ties."

He takes every single thing out of the box, telling about how he got it. They were all things Wilson gave him and he didn't like not even a bit. When he's finished, he closes the box and places it on the floor, before looking at his friend's eyes.

"You said I wouldn't ever understand you, and you know what? You're right. You're far beyond my ability to comprehend. But you don't understand me either. We don't fully understand each other, and I really think we won't ever do so. It never bothered you in the past. Can't we just go on like this, having fun together even though we're different on so many levels?" He looks away from Wilson, as his voice softens. "I know I was a jerk this afternoon, and... I'm really sorry for that. I was really shocked and wasn't thinking properly. I had to convince you to stay, whatever it took. You said you love me, and I thought about it a lot, and still haven't come to a conclusion. I really don't know what to think or do. I never thought something like this could happen. But... I'm willing to give it a try, if you want to. You're really important to me, more than you think. You know how I mess everything up when it comes to feelings and relationships. I do have feelings for you, but I need you to stay near to figure them out. I can't bear to have you far." House looks back at Wilson, with a small, unsure smile on his face, as his hand reach Wilson's, trying to show he really means it. "Will you stay and let us give it a try?"

Wilson haven't said a word since the beginning, and, when he tried to smile, it came out as a choked laughter, which burst through his gullet instead of the tears that were lumping his throat.

"It's not fair, you know." He said, the voice so twisted it nearly whined. The hand in his was a burning feeling, but how could he leave it now? How could he pull it and yell at House to stop it, because it was hurting too much, if the only thing he wanted was to be set on fire by that same touch? "It's not fair, doing this to me."

But Wilson said it out of need or as a cry for help, because he knew it was all it ever took. One word of House's for him to agree. One nod and he'd be there. How cruel could it be for him to stay, how painful it was to hear such sweet words, but he knew there that the only thing he needed in order to stay was to hear House asking him to, and he'd figure everything out later.

In that improbable gap in fate he was, really listening to those words he only dreamed of, never actually even hoping to, he seized the moment not to let it fade, and hugged House, a little too impetuously and too suddenly, some of those pieces of the past still between them.

"Thank you." he murmured, before House reacted, still some moments later. "And I don't have horrible ties."

House chuckles softly, as he hugs back his friend in such a frail state he never saw before.

"Oh, you do. But I'm already used to them." His hand tentatively caresses Wilson's hair, and it doesn't feel awkward or weird, it feels fine. He closes his eyes and lets his body relax into the embrace.

House didn't know if he could love Wilson in the way the other wanted him to, but he loved enough to consider it, to do his best for it to work. He could as well be hugging a small young bird against his chest, and that made him feel curiously pained, wanting to protect the other from harm, letting only happiness touch him. James Wilson has always been there for him, and it was more than time for him to do the same for the other.

One step at a time. First, he needed to convince Wilson to stay, and it seemed it had worked. The rest, if things would turn out well or not, only time could tell. He couldn't lose Wilson, that was crystal clear to him. House knew his heart would be safe, and he didn't really have any restriction about dating his best friend. It was a rational choice, and it could sound too cold and calculated. But he could live without the burning fire of desire and passion, if it turned out he didn't come to feel like that about Wilson. On the other hand, he couldn't live without the warm feeling of knowing the other would always be there, by his side, protecting him from himself, agreeing with his mad plans, laughing with him on casual conversations during meals. He was going to lose some minor things in order to get some certainty and safety. It couldn't possibly be that bad. That rational choice was in fact out of deep feelings. And he felt perfectly fine about it.

Wilson closed his eyes when he felt the hand stroking his hair, breathing deeply. The smell so close and the warmth inside the arms seemed deadlier than ever, and the sensation was so good it was stinging his chest, and he both enjoyed it and endured it for a while.

"Stop it." then, he mumbled, and, in his weak voice, the order sounded softer than it would. "As far as I know, you could be manipulating me into staying, and, in some sick way, it still shows me that you care. It all does." he looked down to the gifts he once gave to House, and he had a hard time rising them again. "Either that or you are really cogitating it. And you don't need to. It's not for you and I never meant to put you in this sort of choice. I can't make you like me the way I do, and I don't want to. "he smiled fondly. "Just for now, I can't stay here without a job, and I could manage to go just to New York. I need to put my life on the rails again, and you need time to think." hesitantly, he places his hand in the other's knee for a quick moment, pressing his lips. "But of one thing I am sure now: I'm not running from you, not ever."

House gives him the insufferable smile of someone who is far ahead in knowledge and knows it.

"Actually, you do have a job. Cuddy said you could go back, and I swear I didn't even need to talk to her. I guess you'll have to endure working at Princeton-Plainsboro and living in boring New Jersey. Sorry about that, I bet you'd have such great fun in New York." To anyone else, that would be a strange scene, even alarming. There wasn't any of the sarcasm and bitterness that always filled House's voice, and he looked just like a man talking with a friend when the work day is done. "I'd have told you earlier, but I wanted you to forgive me first."

He chuckles softly for a moment, but when his eyes are in Wilson's again, they are clean, a sky without clouds or doubts. "Don't worry about my decisions or my reasons. You're my best friend, possibly the one I care the most about. I don't want you hurt. We'll sort everything out, and who knows what could happen? I know, I've said a lot of terrible things today, and most of them I didn't really mean. On the other hand, everything you said was correct. I am selfish, and I am cruel. I... I don't want you to think of me like this. I've come to make amends, not to manipulate you. So, no hard feelings?"

"I guess. And I'll... talk to Cuddy, then." After a chuckle, Wilson tries to remain smiling, unable to still argue or to go on with talking and putting some sense out of what was happening. He didn't even want to think. It was good just inside his chest, that clandestine warmth filling him up like hot water, hot water immersing his previous intentions and reasons and sinking them. "You're a good friend, House. My best. You have no idea how much it mean to me not to lose it and hear what you are saying, even though it... still feels weird to hear it from your mouth, this way. But I will take it as you understood how serious it is, and I'll trust you. I always do in the end. Maybe that will wreck me someday, but..." a strangled laughter comes out of his mouth; he didn't want to say what he just had "You are a difficult person, House, you are aware of this. But I guess this all just means I am, too. And, yeah, I guess... It can be handled. It needs to be, I suppose. It is way, way better than any other option."

Eventually, the bittersweet smile spreads through his self, like his reason crumbled and tumbled down to never be rebuilt. He tried to keep himself out, for the sake of his sanity and his heart, but he was so overwhelmed by the situation that those were futile. The glimmer in his eyes is resigned, filled with the satisfaction of one able to save an immeasurable treasure from drowning forever in the ocean, even knowing it wouldn't ever be his.

_I'll trust you._ House could feel all that responsibility weighing on his shoulders, and that made him act slower, walk with difficulty, breathe deeply with each step. Maybe it was for good, for making him slow down and be less eager to do things his own way. In the past, his heart was at stake; now the situation was reversing. Wilson was strong and had survived lots of break-ups, but there was so much more to consider that the hypothetical consequences were enough to made him shiver. It wasn't something he was used to, believing and hoping things would turn all right - but he had to try. As far as he knew, it could be the best thing to happen to him. He smiles confidently at Wilson, more confident than he feels in fact. "And now what? Do I take you to have dinner or do we skip this part? I hope not, because I'm starving."

"House..." he wanted to talk him out of it. The tingling sensation that it would all go tremendously wrong never left him - mainly because he couldn't picture a situation in which they could just date and magically House would turn out to fall for him in all the ways needed. But, suddenly, all the concerns are wiped away when something crosses his mind, shining brighter. "Actually, I may have an idea. It will sound exaggerated, but... I do have a couple hotel reservations booked in New York, where I was to talk to a hospital and only after I was supposed to take a plane to California. "He raised his eyes and a smirk, finally a entertained one, is drawn in his face "I can turn them into two rooms for one night. It's no more than forty minutes away from here. We grab something to eat in the car, in the way, and we can leave this town for a night. Watch a game tomorrow morning or something. What do you say?"

"Great idea. Let's see what NY has to offer us tonight."

It was some of the things that made their friendship so amazing and dear to him. Earlier, they have thrown sharp words at each other, like knifes; now they were about to go out as if it didn't happen. House was a jerk and could behave like a child to get what he wanted; Wilson was naturally gentle and thoughtful about others, even if that virtue was more like a compulsive behavior. They were flawed and still worked perfectly together, to everyone's surprise. House relaxes his body against the couch with closed eyes, one arm still around Wilson, holding loosely on his waist.

"Let's sip this night like... Dry Martinis." he corrects himself quickly "No, like Pink Rabbits."

Wilson frowns slightly, still smiling.

"I don't think I ever had Pink Rabbits." he says and places his arm in the back of the sofa, keeping his arm bent not to look like he was forcing any proximity. He wanted to be casual, and maybe he could, since House had a great capacity to make him feel comfortable, besides it all. But it was really difficult when he was that close and with the arm around him. He felt not like a teenager close to a school crush, but like holding nitroglycerin. Not only House was close, but the situation that nearly tore them apart. The explosive too near seemed to be his own heart, and he wouldn't make any move and wouldn't hold on to anything. The fuse could be snuffed out and they could have fun like always, enjoying a good time.

"Neither do I. But that's the spirit, my friend. Haven't you ever watched Dead Poets Society? Carpe diem! Or whatever." House's voice is filled with that theatrical mockery of his, sounding natural. That must be a peculiar scene indeed, with their arms awkwardly positioned near each other, trying to act as casual as possible. He can feel comfortable that way, just enjoying the moment, keeping thoughts of self-consciousness away from him. In fact, he feels like holding Wilson properly, but the tension on the other's features discourages him. As far as he knew, Wilson could interpret that gesture as something out of pity or guilt, or even some form of making fun of him. Some time later, his arm relaxes and slips from Wilson's waist to the top of the hipbone. Only some centimetres, but enough to make his heart sinks at the thought of doing something wrong or not allowed. "Act cool, act cool." seemed to have become his new motto, just as the feeling of walking through a rope sixty feet from the ground increased in strength.

"Is it really a drink? Or even legal?" He chuckles and swallows hard "Nevermind, let's try it." he shrugged, but the hand in his hipbone was the center of the universe then; would it remain this way all night? In an intense, sudden movement, he got up at once, turning to face House once again. "Well, shall we go?"

Wilson looked sorry for what was just a glimpse, when it was shown that he didn't even know the actual reason for what he'd just done. He convinced himself that right now wasn't the moment, but both always and never would be the right moment. He just placed both hands in his waist and played it cool again.

House had a look of understanding directed at Wilson, just understanding, without any type of commiseration or pity as it would be expected.

"Fine, we can leave whenever you want. I just need to pick some clothes at home before leaving, I can change when we arrive there." That blind one-night trip to New York was so detached of their day-by-day, and especially because it was Wilson's idea. House places his feet on the floor, removing his legs from over the coffee table, with an exhilaration rarely seen in him. His eyes seems to glisten with anticipation, but it could be just the lights of the room giving them that aspect. "Some fried chicken would be perfect to start this journey." then, with a stagy voice "When shall we depart, Captain?"

Was it him, or House was really in joy? It was impossible not to smile back at that ironic smirk, just ironic enough to be funny, not to be harmful.

"Right away." He gives his back and walks to the key holder "And what is about you deciding, _sailor_?" He lifts the car keys "I own the ship, I make the calls. And I say we are having fried chicken." The playful tone lowers and he throws the car keys to House. "Wait in the car, I'll pick my stuff up and we can go to your place." When the other grabs the keys, he points at him "And don't attempt a riot."

"I'll do my best, _sir_". House gets up from the couch and moves towards the door slowly, and just before leaving the room, he turns. "Do I have permission to turn on the radio of the ship and choose a decent soundtrack to our adventure, Captain_ sir_?" He couldn't deny all that situation was amusing him. "Oh, never mind, I'll act according to my own convictions and do it anyway."

Before Wilson could answer, he closes the door behind him and whistles a song all the way to the car. Once there, he sits and waits for the other to come, making himself comfortable.

When Wilson gets back, he puts his backpack in the back seat and opens the driver's door. House had leaned a bit his seat and the music was loud enough to muffle the sounds of him sitting beside the older doctor. When he sat down, his memory completed the so well-known lyrics for the song inside the car - it was playing Friday I'm in love. Well, it was a Thursday, so he could just shrug to its whole meaning. The very image of it all was filling his lungs like respiring country air, even though the road trip was just from a big city to one even bigger.

Thursday, never looking back. He let it be sung in his head, while starting the car.

"I swear I wasn't sleeping in duty, sir. I hope there will be fried chicken yet." House had been listening quietly to music, humming it to himself with closed eyes and a soft amused smile. When the sounds of the car engines started, he turned his head to look at Wilson, looking perfectly awake. "Haven't you forgotten anything? Oh, how dull of me asking this, forget it, you're not coming back to pick anything else. I bet you stuffed your backpack with everything you could." He laughs and rests his elbow on the now open window, staring mindlessly at the streets lights being turned on everywhere.

"If you remember something I don't, tell me, or pick it up in your place, if you can." While changing the gear, Wilson glances at House. "I suppose... I have everything I need in here." as the soft acceleration of the engines sounds louder than the song, which is reaching its end. He opens more his window and places both hands in the steering wheel, letting a smile place itself in his face in between a sigh.

The way Wilson said those words made House look at him for a moment, and the smile was there, saying so much with so little. Sixteen facial muscles working together to display that almost shy smile, and House could feel a warmness growing inside his chest. He could be getting used to be aware of Wilson's new feelings towards him; the shock almost entirely off his system by then. After picking up his things at his place and a quick stop to buy the food, they were on the road. The radio kept on playing The Cure songs - probably a program made because of some album or single anniversary - and none of them ever extended one finger to change the station.


	3. Chapter 3

The atmosphere inside the car was comfortable, and they chatted and laughed together all the way to New York. The tension seemed to be left back home, and it could be just like any other night out, even if a bit more elaborated. When they parked the car and made the check-in, House's phone vibrated with a new message about the patient's state, asking for counsel. The thought of saying "_I'm in New York for a night out with Wilson, you can take care of everything for one night."_ made him laugh, imagining if the others would think of it as a "romantic escape" - but then he remembers that, as far as he could tell, only them both know about that foggy new situation. And that is the bizarre side-effect of sharing a secret, feeling that everybody knows about it.

Wilson couldn't hold back the amused smile. When he finished checking in, he was away from everything, even though his old life was less than one hour away from him. He was really running, but to be caught, and side by side with the reason that once frightened him the most. And he was still scared, he wouldn't stop being scared as hell, but he was also more comfortable than in ages. It was amusing, that feeling. In short, it was good. It was just really good.

"Are you as willing as I am to find out what a damn Pink Rabbit tastes like?" he stopped in front of House, handing him the keys to his room. The other doctor seemed a bit pensive while putting the phone back in his pocket. "Was it from the hospital? Oh, now is when you'll look at the horizon with a stupid face and go tell them your epiphany." His tone was only light, within a smile, but he pulled back his arm, waiting for House to decide. "What was it? Pink? Rabbit?"

House texts back: _Busy in a self-discovery journey with Wilson. It's not infection, and tell Foreman it's not lupus._ "Stupid face? How dare you. Just because of the highly offensive comment, you'll pay the drinks." He plays with the keys and goes to the elevator, followed closely by Wilson, walking together just like they were used to do. "Thirty minutes to take a bath and change clothes. No delaying, no '_I just need to brush my hair one more time'_. Thirty minutes."

When they enter the elevator and look at each other with the known smiles, their silhouettes bend slightly in each other's direction, a young photographer quickly aims at them and takes a picture -but it ends up unfocused because of poor lighting and distance. "Pity, it would be a great shot.", thinks the young man, with an apologetic smile on his face. House and Wilson don't become aware of it, and the doors close. They part, going each other for a room, and if feels awkward somehow. House throws his things carelessly over the bed and walks to the bathroom, humming that same song about Fridays that couldn't just get off of his head.

When he heard the knocking by his door, Wilson checked the time in his phone. "Come on, I still have, _seven_ minutes left! One can make a cataract surgery with this time!" Surely House already expected that Wilson would take more than him to get ready. But thirty minutes would normally do, if he hasn't spent so much time thinking far away during the shower. He hears House starting to countdown and knocking with the cane on his door, just to annoy him, and walks to there, half opening it. "_Five_ minutes, I swear. I just stuffed my backpack with my clothes and my shirt got too wrinkled, I'm finishing ironing it." He wasn't hiding behind the door, but didn't open it fully. Somehow it was really hard now to be shirtless in front of House. "Do you want to come in or..." he shrugged, playing casual.

It was funny to see Wilson trying to hide behind the door, as if they'd never seen each other shirtless. House raises his eyebrows and looks from one side to another of the room, dramatically. "Are you sure it would be appropriate? Because, well, I can see your chest, and you're _half-naked_." The last words are whispered as if he's telling some scandalous rumour. "Or are you suddenly ashamed of the freckles on your back?" House walks in and sits on the bed, with his hands resting over the fabric besides his body and grins playfully. "You'd be late anyway, so I thought that some pressure would do you good. If you ask nicely, I'll turn my eyes away from you or even cover them. Actually, I'll just stare at you until you're blushing."

"Oh,_ please_, you knew I would be late so you came here earlier just _hoping_ I'd be with less clothes on." Wilson walks to the other side of the bed and picks the iron from the nightstand, looking down in order to avoid staring at House, back to removing the wrinkles in his light grey shirt over the mattress. "I know how hard it can be to resist when I induce my killer sex appeal into the fragile souls around me, but, please try to control your wild instincts." A smirk remains in his lips, both provocative and entertained, and he really hoped not to betray himself and actually blush somehow. The image of the freckles in his own shoulders and back was truly unexpected, since they were hardly mentioned before by anyone. Did House just noticed, or had he made any thought about them? Even something practical, his way, like when they appeared and why, as if he could calculate the amount of melanin. He wanted to say he would just be ready, but just silenced and hurried the work a little.

Sighing dramatically, House says "It seems I can't hide anything from you, that's terrible. You know me so well... Anyway, I'll go on with my plan to blame the pink rabbits for any harm my wild and depraved instincts do to you. But be not afraid, Wilson, I promise we can just cuddle and talk in the morning if you choose so." Laughs. "As if you of all the people would choose it instead of lazy morning sex. Ignore my mistake, I think I'm too distracted by your astonishing body." House stares at his hands absently-minded for some seconds, then just stares back at Wilson, whose cheeks were taken by a light blushing. He observes his friend's chest, as a hundred times before, and there isn't nothing new to it. The skin still seemed smooth to the touch and he could actually picture himself touching it, feeling the muscles and bones beneath it. The question was, had that feeling always been there and he never gave it attention or... what? The silence falls heavy upon him, and he asks the first thing that come into his mind. "Do you still wear toenail polish?"

Wilson let loose a laugh, a lot out of nervousness, too. "Of course. Manicure and pedicure are essential." It was really impossible to stop smiling closely, holding the laughter not to turn into giggling. "I imagine the idea you have of me." He unplugged the iron, always doing something while talking, not to overthink the sentences and not to let House's words really get into his imagination. "You make it sound as if I'm an insatiable sex addict." He lifts the shirt and dresses it, slowly buttoning it. "You know I'm a gentleman, Greg." He lifts his dark eyes to the other and smirks. "I do take to dinners just to cuddle in the couch after that. I iron my clothes, _and_ my nails are flawless, as you so well pointed out." When he finishes buttoning the shirt, pulling the sleeves shortly. Though he was being extremely ironic, it kind of sounded like an odd advertising, and it made him chuckle.

House, on the other hand, couldn't help but going on with the provoking. "God, why aren't we fucking yet? You're _so perfect_, I can't believe I've taken all this time to realize it." He leans on his elbows on the bed, and close his eyes. "Take me, James, we both know you want it." Not able to hold back his laugh, he lets himself fall on the bed. "Oh, but wait, you _do_ are a sex addict. You must admit it, it's less shameful than pretending you're not. Oh, and also a gentleman, we can't forget about that. I bet all this 'cuddle' talk is just where you deceive the poor souls that fall into your spell, isn't it?" Sitting on the bed again, with his hair a bit more messed than before, he grins. "You don't fool me, Wilson, rolling your sleeves charmingly and making puppy eyes. I've known you for a long time, I know your style."

As House was just laughing and speaking, Wilson kept on dressing; the steadiness of his calm movements could only be disturbed by his heavy breathing. Silent, he answered inside his mind with angry words, mainly around "Don't try me". It was funny for him that, though House was naturally provocative, all his actions seemed like he really wanted to play. For good or for bad, Wilson was inside that game for a lot longer. He was spraying perfume in his collar and wrists when House asked the last question, and he didn't respond; he just walked, paced slowly, to be in front of him. "If you say so, it sounds reckless to tease such a _voracious_ lover, don't you think?" He reached out for House's hair, as if mindlessly. "Nah, I don't think you actually know my style." He starts to tidy House's undone hair, even though there was too little to fix and he actually liked it better messy. "Not yet." He winks playfully, pulling his hand back again and finishing with a soft, nearly candid smile. "I'm ready. Shall we?"

House just stared at Wilson the whole time, with a wicked smile, as if challenging the other to jump onto him. He could say "I bet you wouldn't dare", but he wasn't sure if they really should take such a big step. It could be that James felt that too, and that's what held him back from rushing things. It was funny to be in the centre of one's attention that way, to be courted and deciding whether he should flirt back or not. In fact it was a bit embarrassing, but he had allowed Wilson to behave like that. It wasn't unpleasant, just... different. "Of course. Let's see what this city's got for us." He gets up from the bed and straightens his jacket. "Will we just walk around until we find some place or do you have any other plan? Asking for a Pink Rabbit in a bar must be similar to asking for a Cosmopolitan. How Sex and The City is this?"

"It's a _Pink Rabbit_, I doubt it can get more Sex and The City."

House shrugs. "Well, let's go, we're already delayed on our plans." As they walked out, there was still some sort of dizziness that sunk Wilson's feet, something that blurred deliberately what had just happened.

"I do know a nice place here, and we can start asking. Not only for a drink, you know. We just don't need to stay in one place." For a moment he really thought about how much times he would be sincere in that night and it would need to be recanted, to be walked over, for the sake of a good time and their friendship. What a concept. He didn't think it through - had done it enough already. He was about to run away and everything they'd got would be outliving it. So, they would only walk together like in so many times, stare at each other amid punctual questions inside the elevator and go outside, to under the sepia city lights to wait for a taxi, smiling casually into a night they had absolutely no idea what to hope for.

"All we need is a starting point. The rest will come as time goes by." House didn't meant to sound so poetic and world-shattering, but it suited perfectly with their situation. What was their starting point? That moment when Wilson's feelings were made bare so violently? The moment he arrived at his door with a box and some generic apologies? Or even the far away moment lost in time when they met. Maybe there hadn't been a starting point yet, and that was exactly what he needed to put everything together and give it some sense. And if it didn't have a starting point, that would be a pity and a waste of deep feelings. The city lights distorted through the taxi's window reminded him of lost dreams, buried hopes. Could it be that his heart would expose itself to New York's chilly autumn's wind, unsure of everything? In front of a place illuminated weakly by orange light bulbs, he observes Wilson almost clinically, as if trying to decipher a secret code. The moment passes when the other smiles at him and walks to the front door, and he's eager to whatever awaits for him.

There was something different for Wilson when they got in, and he couldn't tell if it was the place that changed since the last time he had been there, or if it was him who did so. Still, there were the dim lights, the music loud enough to muffle the murmur but low enough to allow a good conversation, round black tables displayed in a wide space, though not too wide to make the lack of people inside the pub embarrassing; all those generic elements were perfect to build a perfectly comfortable place to have a good time. As they walked to a table near a corner, Wilson looked at the advertisement from the 50's hung on the walls, that weren't there when he was last in that place. He sat down beneath a picture of a jazz group, though it was rock that was playing. Right in front of House, he looked into the shadowed blue eyes with curiosity. It was a careful look, the one House was giving to him. But not quite concerned, but more like he needed to perceive the new features in something he knew so perfectly - but also as gentle as his sharp personality could be, to enjoy the moment and not to let the harshness of shields to block his vision. Wilson was letting him, because they shouldn't be frightened, and, while their mouths grinned and smirked and talked chit chat, their eyes kept on with the heavy conversation aside.

House tried to remember the first impression that face gave him, the almost perfect symmetry of his features (There's never been such a thing as perfect, but who the hell cares?) , the elegant nose, the hair a bit shorter than it used to be, the shameless wide smile rising the cheekbones, as if trying to show the perfectly (that word again) aligned teeth and the manly traits of his face in all its grace. The eyes still had the same warm glow, as if there was an undying fire behind the brown translucent curtains. That was James Wilson, not the oncologist, not the three times divorced, not the man haunted by the ghost of his lost brother. In that intimate atmosphere, they stared at each other, speaking English with their mouths, tongues and lungs, but communicating in a much more visceral and ancient language with their eyes. Playing absent-mindedly with his now empty pint of beer, he suggests. "I think we should just get drunk, look up for a recipe on the internet and make the drinks ourselves." His face illuminates as an idea crosses his mind. "We've never played a drinking game before, have we?"

_Maybe there's a reason for so, _it crossed Wilson's mind, but he just raised his eyebrows and leaned in the back of the chair, lowering his eyes to his pint of ale once. "If we did, it really went all the way and I don't even remember." He chuckles, looking back at House, who was still concentrated somewhere along the lines of his face. The younger doctor reached out for the beer and served House's glass, softly stirring the empty bottle to confirm it was empty and placing it back in the table afterwards. "It can be fun, do you have one in mind?"

"Nothing in special, it could be just playing cards or throwing darts." He takes a long sip of his beer. "But later. There's a lot to do before blacking out because of too much drinking." Laughs, with some condescension. "Before _you_ black out, I mean." Points a finger to Wilson's face "If you don't stand awake until the sunrise, you'll have to wear pink rabbit's ears during a whole week to work. And you'll wake up with a butterfly tattooed on your hip. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Wilson chuckles. "I am not _that_ weak, come on. The thing with this competition is that you are too marinated already, its not fair play. But I'll go slow, don't worry. I don't want to ruin anything. That, and I am pretty sure you can really do what you are saying." Smirks. "But it would actually a good bet, I liked it. I mean, the pink rabbit ears. I would accept it if it there was a chance of you losing. Imagine the scene, I open the door of Cuddy's office and go 'Hey, Lisa, thank you for accepting me back, I will be the best rabbit-eared oncologist you could possibly have!"

"She probably wouldn't care, everyone thinks you're a great jar of cuteness and love after all. In fact, I'm still surprised she fired you. You're like the friendly teddy bear of the hospital, besides being one of the best doctors there." House says it carelessly, knowing Wilson wouldn't believe him if he spoke it in a more friendly tone. There was absolutely no distance between his sarcasm and what he really meant, and they were so mixed up together that it could be impossible to say whether was truth or not. He's never been 'nice', just when he didn't want to be nice at all. After some time - minutes, or even seconds - people started to rely on the premise that he was a jerk, and most of the times, that was the truth. He was really a jerk, but not all the time, not completely. The important things had to be said as if it didn't matter at all . The truth had to be covered not by lies, but by a layer of mockery or nonchalance.

The ability Wilson had to identify the reason why House was being sarcastic was a little compromised, but yet accurate enough. "Cuddy is extremely professional and she does what it takes, but she's also too soft-hearted, a lot like me. And you despise this quality in a boss; also in a doctor. But how the hell would we bear you otherwise?" He grinned, more provoking than aggressive. "You take us less as teddy bears and more as puppets. But anyway I try to imagine what was the reason for her to change her mind like this. And anyway I feel glad about it." Eventually, his grin turned into a smile, as if he couldn't hold himself back, and he just drank his beer to swallow the hard words. He used to do it to House very often, just to see if it pierces his thick personal shields. It wasn't needed anymore; it was just an unavoidable echo of old habits, such as the sarcastic tone in House's words.

"She changed her mind because she's not a complete idiot. That's all." So many detours, so many sudden turns to avoid saying the simple truth. _Hasn't she changed her mind, I would have made her do it._ He wouldn't stop Wilson from going away directly, but there are always subtler ways. The important was to never let him go. A lot of words were haunting him, and he needed to say them aloud, even if just once, even if Wilson wouldn't remember them or pay attention. A sudden idea crosses his mind, and it feels desperate enough to work. House calls the waiter and asks for more beer, some post-its and a pen. "Let's play a game, right here, right now." He tries not to smile too much when Wilson make the face he always does when waiting for his next act. "We write down names on the post-its and then attach then to one another's forehead. Then we need to discover whose name it is, just by asking for hints." On any other day, House wouldn't do that in the middle of a public establishment. But the low light, the lack of people in the place and the somehow hidden corner where they were sit looked safe enough from curious looks. "What do you think?"

"On the _forehead_?" Wilson chuckles, glances at the rest of the bar and shrugs, chuckling again. "Sure. Why not?" Not only he didn't care, but New York was the kind of city in which he could do whatever in the streets and no one would notice or haunt him in the morning. When the waiter brought the post-its and the beer, he held the pen first. As their glasses were filled and House held his own, Wilson wrote the name to be guessed, pulled the paper and reached out to glue it in the other's forehead, laughing weakly at the image in front of him as he did. He slid the post it and the pen on the table to House, smirking. "Is it going to be a drinking game?"

"It can be. Each wrong guess, you drink." He writes down a name on the paper quickly and puts it on Wilson's forehead. Wilson is wearing that amused lovely smile of his, and House just smiles back, softly, naturally. "Ok, I'll start." He thinks for some seconds. "Can I get pregnant?"

"Nope." Wilson restrains the laughter. "Am I famous?"

"No. Am I someone you admire greatly?"

"Wait." The younger doctor raises his hand a bit. "I have a challenge. We keep on asking, we can even give in and change the character." Points to the paper on House's forehead. "But you can only read what is there if you give a final guess. And if you are wrong, you'll have to wear a pink rabbit ear tiara for a whole day. Of course it's the same for me, too. What do you say?" He leans on the back of the chair.

House crosses his arms on his chest and leans back on the chair, with a grin. "Alright. Let's make this more and more interesting." _You'll never find out anyway_, he thinks as he raises his pint to take a sip of beer. "But you didn't answer me."

Wilson answers indifferently. "Yes, I admire you. Are we related?"

_That would be really weird. "_No. Do you know me in person?"

"Yes." James thinks for a couple seconds. "Am I alive?"

That question made House feel bad, as if bringing death to that happy night was offensive. Still he answers, a bit coldly than he intends to. "Yes. Do I have nice hair?"

"Yes." The answer comes too quickly, both because he already knew and not to betray himself handing in the answer. "Do you like me?"

"Yes." What a dangerous question. One slip and he would give away the name. "Am I important to you?"

"That narrows a lot." Wilson chuckles and gulps some beer.

"That is the point of making questions." House says, with an implicit tone of _really?_

"Yes, you are." _By narrowing I meant you liking someone, _he nearly said, but knowing the answer made it really more interesting to go on. The glass is placed over the table again. "Have I ever touched you?"

"Yes, you've touched me. Do we see each other every day?"

"No." _There are Sundays_. Wilson frowned for a moment, thinking, as the question wasn't accurate enough and he didn't want to be unfair. "Does James Evans Wilson knows me in person?"

"Yes, he does." House perceives Wilson hesitation to answer. Mere seconds, but enough to show that the answer could have been "yes", if hadn't been for some minor circumstance. "Am I older than you?"

"Yes." The answer comes too quickly again, and he drinks what's left of his beer a bit anxiously. It has always been a dangerous bet, even a crazy one. House could read him like a map if he wanted to, but his hopes were that their proximity would be the very reason why wouldn't know certain things, and also why he could confuse himself in the answer to what name was written the post it. But, after all, the best Wilson could do with the game would be trying to squeeze something fun out of it. "Have you ever kissed me?"

"No." He answers, thinking about earlier in Wilson's room. He's never seen him like that, and he had to admit it: if Wilson had kissed him roughly on that moment, angry after being provoked so fiercely, he wouldn't care. In fact, he starts to feel more and more sure that he wanted it to happen. "Not yet. Do I turn you on?"

"Hm." _Hell, yes._ Wilson looked down and smirked, a bit embarrassed, leaning his forearms on the table. "Well, you can say so. Yeah." He stared right at House's eyes. "You turn me on." Then he winked, trying not only to look, but to feel more confident than he was. "Don't... Be...Jealous." He looks away for a second. "Am I a doctor?"

House already knew what was going on - and he could spoil it all, but it was so... endearing. So interesting, so addictive. "Yes, you are. Now tell me: if you were given the chance, even if just for a night, to hear exactly what you wanted to hear from me, what would it be?"

"In this game, one can only answer yes or no, isn't it?" James' smile twisted and he looked to the table again. He would go on asking. Wasn't it supposed to be a limit of questions? Whatever. Even if he said the full name - maybe even if he read the post it and there it was the answer he seemed to find, he wouldn't quite believe it.

"Rules are for sissies." Gregory waves his hand in a disdain gesture. "Go on, answer me."

"Yes." He nearly whispered, pressing his lips, the half smile trembling softly in his expression. "That would be the only thing I would want to hear, at some point. One true and sincere yes, with no sign of sarcasm or irony at all." Before swallowing hard, Wilson reached out for his beer again, just sipping it.

"Fine." House can't help smiling at the head-over-heels look on Wilson's eyes. "Will you kiss me when we're back at the hotel?"

"Actually, you asked twice. It's my turn now." Wilson took a deep, truncated breath. "Would you let me kiss you, back at the hotel? No, better. Would you actually _want_ me to?"

Sometimes an answer requires too much reasoning, too much time and effort. That's the type of answer one could go an entire lifetime without coming any closer to it. The answer Wilson wanted was simple, visceral, intuitive. A tiny part of a great and complex question, but still easy to deal with. When stormy blue eyes met the deep brown ones, the sarcasm is gone, and it seems irony's never been there. The word is clear in his low voice. "Yes."

Wilson thought he wasn't hearing properly,because his veins were throbbing inside him, his heart louder than a chapel bell in the exact hour, making him feel that, for a minute, he was completely synchronized with everything at all. But there was no doubt when House's voice is heard again. "I'd really want you to."

With one movement, the brown-eyed man held the paper glued to his forehead and took it off. He didn't look at what was written, though; he just folded it and put it inside his trouser's pocket. "Great game, really fun." He said, fast words, while his breath was still puffing. "Look, there is no pink rabbits here. Let's stop in a 24h convenience store, buy us some tequila and strawberry syrup and get the hell outta here?"

"Bossy, aren't we?" House chuckled. "And it looks someone's in a hurry. Too hungry for the new experiences, I guess." House takes off the paper from his own forehead, looking at it for a fraction of second, just to see his own name written on it. His grins widens, automatically, euphoric for being right and anticipating what was yet to come. The paper is carefully hidden in his wallet, as he calls the waiter and pays the check . Standing on his feet feels funny being slightly inebriated.

"Come on, Wilson. I wouldn't like to get drunk and fall in public that much, after all. Each second passed is a second lost." Winks, thinking about how much he looked like a commonplace fool, and not thinking about anything in particular at the same time. He can't help flirting, in such an ecstatic state as he is. Wilson definitely made him feel something other than companionship and slight annoyance, and as soon as he figured out what it is, better. The puzzle to solve this time was himself. It bothered him in a fascinating way, making him want to find out more and more about that. In the end, he hadn't really considered all possibilities. Still he's living that now, and now is the only time he has for sure.


	4. Chapter 4

For the first time in a good amount of it, Wilson was some steps ahead of House, but it wasn't in the way he wanted. It was enough to make him feel set on fire; but both because of the hot arousal and having his chest burned from inside out. The excitement he felt, though, wasn't about flushed cheeks and hardened muscles - not yet, at least, though his eyes were dark from dilated pupils - but because he felt every flirt and every 'yes' made a spark burst between his neurones, like new synapses were the birth of a star, and everything he had ever thought about House coexisted as they walked out side by side, stepping in the ethereal floor.

_"_So you did knew what a Pink Rabbit was like_"_, House said as they left and Wilson almost didn't hear, so lost inside himself he was.

"I looked it up while in the hotel" he answered, and House sort of called him a cheater or something, but then Wilson was calling the taxi and lost in the sentence. It was hard to focus when his heart was racing like that. When he hung up, House told him they might need some Nesquik or strawberry syrup, and they laughed together and started talking like nothing different had happened at all. Did House knew he pictured having him right there in that dark round table? Or the amount of strength it took for him not to obey when he said 'Take me, James' and laid on the mattress laughing acidly? Did he knew how many times he thought about it in the hospital or when they were alone, about them riding each other like goddamn motorcycles? So he was ahead, and anxious, the awkward sensation never actually leaving him; so they were smirking in between the innuendos, the expectations and the dirty mental images. But besides it all, besides the impulse and the arousal and the flirting, there were things he cared about better. Things like House's true smile of satisfaction - not out of winning, sarcasm or provocation. And there it was, the smile, as they talked. House was having really a lot of fun. It was also despicable, because he had such a wicked sense of entertainment, and and it made Wilson really hope the whole experience wouldn't wind up just boring him. It would hurt like hell and he couldn't know what would be left of him, but if House was giving it a chance, he would take it. He could wait, he could slow down or hurry it up, anyway it would take for him to seize it.

"I am really anxious for what's to come" he said, as the taxi stopped. "I mean, Pink Rabbits! It's a weird and yet a fantastic idea. So not like what we are used to..."

House smirks, thinking about how much they were using the "pink rabbits" excuse not to say what was really on their minds. It was glorious indeed - the excitement mixed with anxiety shot right into their brains, the eagerness in Wilson's eyes, the euphoric happiness he demonstrated - it all made him feel great. Wilson left him in the taxi to buy the ingredients for their crazy attempt on making that weird drink, and House tried to find a part of him that didn't like that situation and what it could bring, some objection he could have to all of that. But every whining voice complaining inside his head for whatever reason was silenced, every argument brought to the ground with the mere remembrance of Wilson's smile. When he came back holding a paper bag and sit by his side again, James looked so young and full of life as on the first times of their friendship, when they used to swim and play tennis together on weekends. Those memories made him feel warmer than he already was, and in fact, it could as well be a delirium out of a high fever. The driver was staring at them through the mirror from time to times, and if he wanted so hard to know, why not let him? "I hope you haven't forgotten the condoms, Jimmy."

"I didn't." Wilson stopped himself with a nasal sound, feeling a rush of blood up his neck and cheeks. "Fuck, I shouldn't have answered it so quickly." He laughed, then, tilting down his head. "B-but it doesn't mean I actually- ok, right, I'm not having this conversation here."

Wilson looked outside, trying to silent his nervous laughter, and House couldn't help laughing. "Yes, let's leave this conversation for the bedroom. Or maybe just forget the talking part." The other doctor was blushing, and that was always something worth seeing. He reaches out for the other's hand and squeezes it, part for making Wilson blush even harder, part because it felt nice. James' hand was warm like his own would never be, and the texture of the skin was fine too - everything was fine. "You know I love when you blush, but I'm eager to see more of that mastery confidence you showed me earlier when I asked you to take me and make me yours completely. You know how I love when someone's strong enough to dominate me."

"Shut the fuck up, House." Wilson answered in between clenched teeth; both because he was really embarrassed in that situation, but also because those words in House's hoarse voice were always so unduly teasing. He laughed again, biting his downer lip as if trying not to. Greg could play him easily ,just like a piano and, at that point, the older man was really well aware of it. How overpowering was it? _How overpowering and why the fuck am I liking it that much?_ It was like he was the rabbit there, walking to the trap. "You are impossible." His fingers, under House's hand, passed to upon it, and he held it firmly; when his palm was against the back of the other's hand, interlacing their fingers, it felt like a subtle, gentle way of showing some control - and he would only let go to reach for his wallet and pay the taxi driver without even looking at his face.

"Don't say it as if you didn't like that." They leave the taxi and walk to the hotel, as if nothing was happening; as if their hearts weren't hammering against their chests, aiming for closeness. When the elevator doors open, they could sigh in relief for being alone with each other - that is, if an old lady and her probable granddaughter hadn't entered with them. It seemed they would never leave that elevator, and they kept looking at each other with something close to desperation. When they arrived at their floor, it could be said they had been far too much in a rarefied ambient. In a conspired manner, they laughed quietly while heading for Wilson's room.

James felt even dizzy when he closed the door behind him, and he actually leaned in the doorknob for a few seconds, while House was walking in. He glanced at the silhouette drawn in the dim light of the moon coming in through the open curtains, limping weakly, looking enviably light-hearted, or pretending it really perfectly. Wilson couldn't see, but he was sure the confident, entertained smile was there, like he could feel it through the shadows. There, merely deciding if he should turn on the light felt like a deadly choice, and so it was every movement of his. The silence was scratched by the sound of his own breath, and, with a weird relief that could be followed by another nervous laughter, House reached with the cane for the switcher in the headboard of the bed. The room was filled with that half-light, and the scene it painted in the room was beautiful and funny at the same time. It was like House could do whatever he wanted inside that bedroom and it would still be as he was just casual, just playing, just teasing. But there was something involving inside that awkwardness, that seemed more like a choreography in which Wilson didn't knew the steps, but was willing to dance. He walked in, too, in heavy steps, and let the things he bought upon a small table near the balcony door. Putting the hand inside his pants pocket, he reached for the folded post-it, opening it. Even though it was obvious that it would be his name that was written in it, he couldn't hold back the wide, bright smile, with a bit of resignation. "You know, House..." His voice sounded like some devil possessing him or another force dubbing his feelings. "I could say it metaphorically, because it is really just like those so called Pink Rabbits. You may say you want it, but you can't make yourself like it."

After leaving his cane resting on the wall, the blue-eyed walked closer to Wilson, taking the things out of the paper bag to start preparing the drink. "Well, I have never tried it. I can only imagine what a Pink Rabbit taste like." He wasn't looking directly at Wilson, and it could or could not be on purpose. Even if he had spent all that night speaking whatever came into his mind, it was still hard to let himself go and just say things naturally. "I know how it is, I know what they are made of. But I do need to feel it with my tongue to be able to form a proper opinion. If I don't like it... That's something to think about later. For now I can only say I want it more than anything."

Wilson doesn't look at House either, and the time to answer extends inside that room. "But, seriously, this, without ice and a proper shaker... Red plastic cups, it's like a fraternity party." He chuckled, hating the sound of his voice in that moment and just wishing he could be quiet. They were side by side, their arms touching, their breaths deepening, and Wilson let his hand slide carefully on the table to pick the other ingredients, slowly. There was a part of his mind screaming for him to throw it all away, to toss it out of the balcony, because it was never about any damn drink at all. Yet there he was, mixing the recipe as he remembered it in two cups, in small quantities. "Guess what I meant was..." he placed one of the cups in front of House. "We are being brave. And I am loving it."

House studies the liquid inside the cup with a judging look. "Yes, I guess we are. Come on, let's drink it outside. If we don't like it, we can throw it on the people passing on the sidewalk." He puts a hand on Wilson's shoulder, gently pulling him to the balcony. _Brave_, he said. One could say they were being brave, but House didn't feel like that. He wasn't being brave, he was merely letting the waves of that pleading will take control. The will to dare, to try, to trust. Well, maybe that was the meaning of brave: letting yourself behave as you wish, striping your soul before someone else's eyes. The city lights sparkled like stars, and the stars were nowhere to be seen. Electric stars illuminating the electric streets, full of electric people. He raises his glass to cheer. "To novelty, making old things look brighter under a new light. Wow, how poetic of me, you should feel honored." House grins with his eyes fixed on Wilson's, which reflects the lights like a mirror lake, beautifully.

"Oh, I do." Wilson smiles widely. "I am humbled by the rare opportunity to appreciate your poetry." His voice is filled with joy, what makes the glow in his eyes even brighter. If there was anything else in the world, Wilson didn't knew. And it was all okay, no matter what could be before or after that moment. He wished his mind printed the lights and shadows in his eyes, so he could see forever that expression in House's face; he was looking at him in a way Wilson was sure that had never seen before. He raises the glass a bit as a toast, before drinking it, and coughs almost immediately after swallowing.

House frowns greatly as the flavor spread through his tongue, but doesn't spit it out. "God, I certainly had my share of awful drinks, but this one... I don't even know." It feels impossible not to laugh. "I really don't know what to think. It doesn't exactly taste bad, but... It's like... I don't know, cough syrup, thousands of times stronger? Maybe with some ice..." He rests his elbow on the balcony railing, still laughing though weakly now, their faces almost aligned and just some centimetres away from each other.

"No, this didn't work out, lets find someone to throw the cup at." Laughing too, still with the strong taste in his gullet, he swallowed hard and licked his lips, feeling the warmth of the small distance in between them to overcome the autumn night wind. His laughter turned into a smile and he lowered his eyes, to his own left hand, as it went up weakly touching House's chest. The fingers traced a way to his neck and in every centimeter his heartbeats raced faster and faster. He knew he couldn't take long inside that moment, when he held House's face and inched towards him, but he wanted to. Right there, everything was certain, every light was on in the world and he was afraid that, if he closed his eyes, it would fade or slip away. But when their lips were centimetres away from each other, he closed it anyway, because, in that seconds, he trusted it with all he's got, unstoppably; and his mouth met blindly House's, locking, finally and once for all, the kiss he yearned so much and for so long.

Wilson's lips felt gentle and soft over his own, and it was somehow overwhelming. He was prepared for rough kisses full of desire. He was prepared for teasing lips touching his own in the most provocative way possible. But the first seconds of that kiss were so full of love and care that he felt helpless. It was strong and self-assured, and still kind. That sort of shocked sensation that paralysed him soon passed, and he touched Wilson's lower lip with the tip of his tongue, feeling its texture. His hand reached out for the other's body immediately - that is, until he acknowledged the dead weight of the cup and what was left of the horrid fateful drink. With a careless movement, he lets the cup fall, and who could ever judge him? How could he stop that kiss for such a stupid thing like a plastic cup? As if he would care about judgements, even less in that moment. His hands, now completely free, moves to Wilson's waist and neck, and he finally has the confirmation that James' hair was just as soft and velvety as it looked. With a half-smile, he captures Wilson's upper lip between his own, and the ghost of the taste of strawberry syrup and tequila is still there, sweet and sour. His eyes open up just a little, and all he can see is the blurred vision of Wilson's eyelids and the dizzy glow of the street lights on the corner of his visual camp. Closing his eyes again, he lets himself immerse in his best friend's lips, happily, fearlessly.

The hands in his body made Wilson unsure if he had actually placed the cup in the balcony wall or if he just dropped it, out of a spasm. The result, though, was the only thing that mattered: both his hands were free to hold House's body closer, as a response to his signs of approval. The smile in House's lips against his made him truly feel like laughing, but the rush of excitement that ran up his spine stopped him from it. While his hands slid down House's torso and grabbed both sides of his waist over the soft fabric of his shirt, was beyond surreal - what brought him again to reality, that crazy, impossible reality. He deepens the kiss, open mouths and touch of tongues, as his arms meet by House's back and he hugs his body, closer and stronger against his own. He needed it to be whole and full, even if there was no exact point where to go. But House needed to feel more than the smooth, careful touches; he needed to feel the grip, to feel his muscles, his will and his desire. Because though the bewilderment and the enchantment were taking him over, all those elements existed - they were there, stronger than ever, to finally be completed.

House was sure he had never been that close to Wilson, and it was thrilling. Every change in the pressure applied against his own skin meant a new level of desire, a new form of showing how much he was needed and wanted, as if, despite trying to go slow for House's sake, Wilson couldn't help demonstrating how much he longed for that. He tried to determinate a moment when his best friend's actions towards him had changed, even if just barely, but it seemed that he had always been moderately blind when it concerned to him. He may have read James entirely, from end to beginning, but still missed what was written between the lines. When their mouths parted, he felt almost disappointed. They kept breathing on each other's lips, foreheads touching, eyes closed. House's hand were still on Wilson's hair, somehow addicted to the sensation of touching it. _You may say you want it, but you can't make yourself like it._ He didn't have to make himself like being touched by Wilson. It happened he already did, with no effort put into it. "The Pink Rabbit was truly awful. Kissing you was a whole another story, though."

When he heard it, the brown-eyed almost asked _Really?_, and then tried to find some trace of irony or mockery - he had a long way practicing it when it was about House, and it sort of became his first instinct. It wasn't at all as if it hasn't been amazing - the slight misguide in their rhythms finding their way together into a new one, something unique. The hand inside his hair; still there, the precise fingertips skimming in his head, making him shiver. The flavor of tequila and strawberry syrup, thousands of times better in House's tongue.

No, he wasn't surprised the kiss had been wondrous; it was just that yet it was all too hard to believe. Despite this, despite there was something inside him that could be called reason, he was already smiling foolishly, feeling warmed up around his heart, so deliciously lost and unable to feel afraid. They had teased so much, played all along with all sort of dirty innuendos they could, but ended up there, so inconceivably poetically and mundanely sharing that depth of intimacy and affection in a portraiture in the balcony. Two middle-aged doctors, two best friends, in an unknown hour inside a random autumn night in New York, not too far, but being together far away enough of all the great troubles and the incoming responsibilities in their lives, letting go of it all for that night like red cups to the sidewalk. And House said he liked it - there wasn't anything else Wilson needed, but he couldn't answer. There wasn't anything he wanted to say that he actually should. He could thank him for giving them the chance or for not letting him go. He could say dreams had come true. He could go on, all sentimental, since his heart was so dangerously exposed, like his rib cage was open in a cardiothoracic surgery. But he wouldn't. He merely reached House's lips with his own in another kiss, a quick, closed-mouthed one, just hoping it could say it all in his place.

Everything was happening as if they weren't real, but characters in a romantic movie. Just when House thought it couldn't get more dreamlike, the sound of fireworks exploding in the sky interrupted his thoughts. He couldn't help breaking the kiss to laugh, bewildered, not believing. "No way! It can't be a coincidence. I'm sure this is all part of your plan. Come on, Wilson, we knew it would be great kissing me, but was it really necessary?"

The starless sky is now coloured with sparkles, and House pulls Wilson closer with the arm now encircling the other's waist. A kind of euphoria, the same one that was on James' face earlier, has taken over his own smile. Could it be that reality, that same dull and heartless reality he criticized every day and claimed to know so well, had just turned into a fantastic place where those things were possible? Maybe he was just too high, not on alcohol or drugs, but this time on that sensation of being held so tightly and with so much affection.

In the beginning, Wilson was laughing too hard to answer. What was already too hard to believe turned out to be a plot in a fairy-tale, and it was all too much to process. He couldn't see a reason for the bright lights sparkling and exploding amid the skyscrapers, but was it indeed too much coincidence, or he was just seeing it all as one, tying the random things in the world with that humanly way of finding fate in the universe? "Oh, you didn't like it, wait, I'm going to call off the confetti and the white doves." He was still holding House's waist, and his smile was brighter than the colorful punctual explosions that dotted the dark sky instead of the missing stars.

"Well, now the drug dealers will think their stuff has arrived, or that the cops are coming to get them." Wilson's smile acted like a magnet, drawing his attention to it irresistibly. House feels like he could kiss him all the time, having just discovered how much he liked it. Their lips are sealed together once more, and it's pure bliss. His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he just ignores it. On that moment, he wasn't a doctor, he didn't have any case, nobody was dying waiting for a diagnosis. There was only one place on earth, and it was that hotel room in New York, and the only person who mattered was right there, pressed against his own body.

_Oh, c__ome on._ The thought crossed Wilson's mind when he felt the vibration against his own leg, hearing it weakly. _This is once in a lifetime, the hospital can work it out without him for a while._ But he just let out a strangled breath, letting his eyes open a little and the movements soften. "You..." he murmured against House's lips before he could actually break the kiss. "You should get that." He took a deep breath. "It's late, it must be important." Wilson couldn't picture anything he would want less than House stepping out of that hug, but the expression in his face was comprehensive and kind. Chuckling, he jokes. "You figure out diagnosis just by talking to me, by now you may be about to win the Nobel."

"But how will they ever learn if I always guide them to the answer?" House fakes a tired mother's voice. "Ok, fine. Wait for me on the bed. I'm pretty sure winning the Nobel involves having sex." There was nothing in the world that he ever wanted more than to never leave those arms. It was comfortable, it made him feel good and even forget about his leg for a while. Wilson's always cared too much about him, as if he were a psychotic child who required all the attention. It annoyed him infinitely - still some part of him loved to feel that he was frequently part of his friend's thoughts. In that hotel room, they were as safe as they could be, and there was no reason to fight or argue. It seemed the hospital and its problems came in between almost everything they did, and it was hard to just let it go and leave it alone. Sometimes House thought that their friendship would work better if they didn't work together - but he couldn't make through those infinite days without the occasional visit to Wilson's office, or having coffee and just enjoying each other and forget, if only a bit, about everything that worried them. It was harder to hide things from Wilson with that proximity, and the younger doctor was always trying to make House act more humanly, more considerate of others, which sincerely pissed him off.

To bring all that atmosphere smelling like alcohol and sterilized sheets to that room where they could as well stay forever - why not? - felt as wrong as it could. But he knew Wilson would blame himself for whatever could happen, and it was better to avoid such situations. With a resigned sigh, he takes his hands off the other's body and reach for his phone, to end it as quickly as he could.

"I don't think Nobel winners even have sex at all" Wilson laughed weakly at House's reaction, who seemed so pissed off about being interrupted he could feel flattered. Still, Gregory had that typical way of running from his duties and responsibilities from the hospital, and he, Wilson, often ended up being his conscience, no matter if either one or the other deliberately wanted it or not. He stepped back, just then being aware of the night wind, blowing between their bodies and agitating his hair. He actually walked into the room, trying to distract himself from the call, but stopped by the bed, standing beside it. Probably House would really need to have a seat, and it wasn't at all a definitive meaning, but the symbolic connotation in it made his heart race again – or was it racing all the time, and just in a few moments he was fully aware of it? He stood there, waiting for the other to get an answer for what could be making them call on a Thursday at… - he checked his own phone – on a Friday, at fourteen past one. He smirked. Friday. Leaving his phone on the nightstand, he turned again and crossed his arms, looking at House, knowing that that song from The Cure would stick in his mind for good.

House sighs, clearly annoyed, and answers the phone. When Foreman's voice is heard, he whines. "Oh my God, mom, I'm with a boy! Can't you just leave me alone?" His face changes slightly as he listens, his eyes lost somewhere among the street lights. "Fine. Put him on steroids. I'll be back tomorrow... Most likely. Tell Chase and Cameron to not be jealous and watch some romantic movie together. And don't call me anymore." He hungs up and looks at Wilson. With a smile, he limps at his direction. "I don't care about the Nobel, actually. Old Johann S. Bach composed dozens of pieces and had lots of sex. A life very well enjoyed indeed. Maybe I should leave medicine and dedicate my life to music, what do you think? But only if you agree to be my muse. And by that I mean you'll have to keep me entertained." He sits on the bed, somehow heavily, as if throwing himself over it. That makes him remember of when he hd sit on that same place, and the look on Wilson's face then, making him grin wider.

There was something that disturbed Wilson greatly about the Medicine losing a genius like House, but maybe music was losing something enormous already - he wouldn't know, and wouldn't bring it up either unless the other really insisted - and they were just being playful. "Oh, me? Your muse?" The younger doctor placed his hand in his chest, saying it dramatically, pretending the tone of an enchanted damsel. "What am I supposed to do to inspire such... greatness?" Sitting beside House and looking into his eyes again, he laughs, delighted, placing one hand in the other's thigh. "Greg, this is all too much like porn script for me."

House frowns. "Wait, I'm confused. Are you... Complaining about that? Because, you know, it is your hand on my thigh. If you wanted romantic, we should have gone to London to kiss in the rain or whatever. Actually, if you wanted romantic, you shouldn't have picked me."

Wilson took his hand off him, but only to lean on the bed and pull his own leg bent upon it, turning his body to House. He approached his face to House's ear. "But I do have _picked_ you, as you say, right?" He whispered, placing the right hand where the other was moments ago. "And my hand _is_ on your thigh, right?" The fingers then slid up his leg, just a few inches. "I guess this says enough." His lips are carefully pressed under House's earlobe, by the end of his jawline. Wilson wanted to tease him, more than as some sexual play. The ability of doing it was so overpowering by itself he could feel the dopamine levels increasing, the hormone expanding in his veins like mercury in an old thermometer. He wanted to tease him personally, in a way he knew House would be compelled to prove the opposite. But he couldn't even say something as _We can go slow if you think you can't handle it, _because it was indeed the truth. In a way, Wilson's thought they both couldn't, and that they weren't actually ready for it. However, perhaps it was something they'd have to figure out in the meanwhile, and, as he laid another tender kiss down the other's neck, he tipped the sensitive skin gently, just to see the response.

The sensations were so violent, and House knew it was because of the novelty, the confusion, the want, and even if he didn't admit it, the fear. It was a merely press of lips, but the skin felt oversensitive, as if it had been burnt just before that touch. It was too much and it wasn't enough. It was like he had never been touched that way, and there some truth in that. To feel Wilson's attention and affection covering him was amazingly overwhelming, and he didn't know whether he could deal with that. It had always felt a bit weird to be with people on that way, and even more difficult to get used to when the person really cared about him. It took time to let his bridges down, to forget about all that self-protecting manners. Even if Wilson had always been there, it seemed there was still something holding him back from just behaving as if it was just like any other date. Mostly because it wasn't like any other date. It wasn't a date at all in fact, and he didn't know exactly what it was. It felt good, it was right - but maybe, just maybe, he needed some time. Trying not to sound too much like a frightened virgin, he just play it cool, not looking at Wilson. "What happened to "I'm a gentleman, Greg, I take to dinners just to cuddle in the couch after that"? Hesitating slightly and speaking with less confidence, he hoped it wasn't perceptible. "Last time I checked, you haven't even paid me a dinner yet."

Not before giving a brief, noticing smirk, Wilson pushed himself from House's body, to stare at him with an insulted expression drawn in his face, purely out of entertainment. "I haven't paid you a dinner? _I haven't paid you a dinner? _Gregory House, I've paid the fuck out of dinners for you!" He laughed, and his hand gingerly moved in House's leg, nearer to his knee. "Didn't your mother warn you that when guys start to pay things for you it's because they want to get into your pants? That you should take care specially with cute guys like me?"

"Oh, yes, I remember, she warned me about that. Then we made each other's nails, talked about my menstrual cycle, went to the mall, bought some lingerie and had a decaffeinated lactose-free macchiato while we observed the couples, talking about how it would be wonderful when I got my hands on a wonderful darling man." His voice was beyond sarcasm, if that was possible. At least his worries were gone. "And as far as I know, you haven't made your expectations on me clear at that time. And why should I give you what you want right now if it's so pleasing to see you torturing yourself trying not to rip my clothes off instead of acting like a Victorian gentleman worried about my purity and innocence?"

"Come on, Greg, you are provoking me." With a sudden movement, Wilson pushes House laying on the bed. "You are making me do it." He purrs the words, placing both hands by the sides of the other's head, getting advantage out of his surprise. "I know you're not ready yet, but you are compelling me..." he says as he lays beside House and hugs him, wrapping the arms around his and locking them "...to cuddle with you so I can prove how much of a gentleman I really am." His voice smiles and the grab tightens, in order to make it more difficult for the other to move. He can't help letting out a chuckle before performing the playful voice. "Don't struggle, I know this is your first time showing affection and I'll be rough and sarcastic to make you feel comfortable."

"_Wow_, how considerate of you. I'm really lucky. My mother would indeed be happy for me." His pulse rate increases greatly, and he breathes faster, feeling Wilson's hug tightens with each breath. House knows he's got the awkward startled look upon his face, and he closes his eyes to avoid feeling more embarrassed. _Concentrate on the sensation._ Wilson was holding him too tightly for him to really enjoy the sensation, still it wasn't bad. He's never been one for cuddles, maybe because of the meaning it carried, and yet he knew if he just let himself relish that proximity and the warmth coming not only from his friend's body, but spreading through his veins, making him feel light-headed, that would be just fine. His muscles are still contracted out of the surprise, and he lets them relax slowly, becoming defenseless. With still closed eyes, he somehow manages to nuzzles his nose on Wilson's neck, with a silent sigh.

Wilson wasn't expecting House to remain inside his arms that way; not that he actually knew what he was expecting, but it was supposed to be a big joke. He remained frowning, a blank look in his eyes, staring at the wall on the other side of the bedroom. His own arms also gradually relaxed, untightening the grip, and he breathed deeply, letting his hand roam to House's chest, leaving it loose there. Wilson couldn't know if it would be more invasive for House to unzip his pants or to stroke his hair - and he would want them both, but just sighed. The heavy breath in his neck and the fast heartbeats under his fingers made his expression ease and turn into a weak smile. He wanted to stay just like that, too, feeling the tension and the embarrassment slowly dissipate or turn alone into something else. As he had said before, staying like that was what he'd do - not a mean for anything, just the hug by itself. He caressed House's chest with his thumb, lightly. The chance was all he needed, and it was given. He'd just have to go along with it.

"Just because of your audacity to attack me when my guards are low, you'll have to prepare me those pancakes of yours for at least a month. Not that my guards were low. I just got distracted. What was your fault too, and maybe you should not only prepare breakfast for me but dinner too."

"If you think you can trick me into doing things for you just to go on with these games, you're dead wrong. Your dick is not made of gold or something." Wilson laughs, absently passing his fingertips on the seams of House's shirt, near his collar. Not that House hadn't done it already all the time before, without the innuendo. "But, hm, dinner and breakfast, in this plan of yours we are spending nights together? I mean watching Monster Truck, sure."

"Don't underestimate what you've never tried." House raises his eyebrow. "Haven't _your_ mother taught you that you have to impress your date with subtle gestures of kindness and affection every day? Or maybe you're thinking that all you've gotta do is roll up your sleeves to your elbows and smile?"

_Spending nights together. _It sounded so much more than what it meant. That night could be counted as one of the uncountable nights they spent together, and still the very first one. They could sleep together, and it seemed that would be exactly the case. Wilson always looked so young and innocent while sleeping, _as if he weren't always thinking about getting laid_, he thought. He holds back the smile from spreading through his lips at that perspective. "It was just an idea. If I'm asking for too much it's alright, I can deal without it. I'll try not to be too sad."

Smiling, Wilson forces a deep sigh. "Ok, I can make some sacrifices. One or two pancakes maybe." Breathing heavily, he lets go slowly of House's body and lays on his back, reaching out for the hand while staring at the ceiling. "You know, Greg..." After a moment of silence, he goes on, with a serious, but unconcerned tone. "It's ok. The way you want it, if you want it, when you want it. Let's not be teenagers, I..." James hesitates a little, not enough to make room for House to answer. "I have made up my mind, not you. And I'm alright with this, I don't want any answer now. From the beginning you were trying not to let me go away. We have time now, take yours." He holds House's hand tighter. "You know I'm here." Then Wilson let go of his fingers, as if to free him from its symbolic weight.

"As if you or anyone else could make me do something I don't want to. I know. I... I know. Don't worry about me, right? Worry about you, for what can be the first time in your life as far as I know. I'm not like your needy girls. I can stand for myself." House couldn't exactly explain what made him feel so distressed. Maybe it was because Wilson seemed to be treating him as if he could break if too much pressure were applied upon him. Maybe it was because Wilson was right and he was just running aimlessly through that crazy path that had just appeared in front of him, so inviting and unpredictable. Maybe they should have remained kissing on the balcony, not thinking about anything at all.

He cursed Foreman mentally for interrupting what could have been one of his greatest kisses, but why should he complain about that if Wilson was right there by his side? "You know what? We're doing boring talk when I could be kissing the hell out of you." House rolls on the bed and, holding both sides of Wilson's face, unites their lips, as if they never had been separated.

In that touch of lips, Wilson's whole body seemed to emerge from ice-cold waters, and the bland temperature of the room was enough to overheat that shivery bone structure of his. The reaction to House's action was towards him, two forces destined to collide and not to repel each other afterwards; somehow the lips together absorbed all the energy, and they had the potential to turn it into anything. He'd again and again feel dazed on how House's lips were addictive, and how it goes better than he imagined; not only because of the loveliness in his lips showing to nudity what all his actions and instincts learned how to hide. Not only because of the way he could read his movements and go along with it, precisely as an incision with a scalp in a surgery. Not only because of his stubborn, selfish way ripping it sometimes, changing it all just to break his confidence or to watch him lose the way clumsily, for fun. He was better because all those meanings weren't just about a kiss he had just once, just there. It was entirely because it was about him, really him, against his mouth, chest and hands, manly and wholeheartedly, to make what was left of his doubts turn into certainty. And, when it was about instinct, about trying to death those new concepts and impressions, Wilson would live up to House's mocking words about his sexuality - his response to that kiss was so eager as if he was under those arms to be rescued from sinking. He clung to the other's shirt until locking his fists, biting softly House's lower lip, his puffing breath in such a hurricane that his thoughts were nothing but sirens at the distance.

House couldn't tell whether it was physical or psychological - or both, who knew - that sensation of needing more, of wanting more. With closed eyes, in that kiss that was pure instinct, he didn't care if he was kissing shamelessly his best (and only) friend; if said friend was male just like him; if he didn't know for certain what was driving him to do so. In that lost hour between night and day, they were changing everything. Their friendship was slowly being reshaped with their lips and curious hands, and it certainly wouldn't ever be the same thing again. House felt confident about it all, not knowing why or how, but it probably had to do with the fact that it was mostly in his hands. Not that Wilson couldn't change his mind at anytime and say that it was all a big mistake, but House had the sensation that it was up to him to let that thing grow or not into something stranger, something new, something extraordinary even. They had fought and shouted at each other so many times, and remained good friends. Could love and passion destroy something that anger and disappointment failed to? With their bodies so close, hands aiming desperately for hair and skin, he felt high, strong, capable of everything. Kissing Wilson was fine, he decided. He could not only get used to that, but also addicted greatly to it.


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson's mouth escaped to a faint breath in between teeth and he skimmed his nose in Houses cheek, on the recent beard, placing kisses in his face and up his jaw. His actions were ended with a question mark, and it was really given to House the incumbency to answer, until he feels secure enough to presume acceptance. It was unfair how deeply subdued he felt; not that he was, indeed, for it was an inner concept, but he really felt helplessly taken. He was dominated not by House's hands, but by what it meant; not by his lips, but by the feelings he once ran from and the sensations that were growing stronger than his reasons, like gradually silencing the infinite parts of him that made his metabolism function like a coherent, organized composition. It was amazing, though, how those kisses were showing more and more what was inside their subterfuges, and how the room to hold back was narrowing, leading him in each grasp and touch of tongues to more desire. Everything else mattered less and less; he was messy and the pieces all over he'd pick up later. In spite that, he knew what he had said - his thoughts, the sirens, again - and he cautiously pulled House's shirt a little up, to place both hands in his hipbones and feel his skin directly. It was too hard to resist. House was upon his body, for the first time, so close, chest pressing chest, bones against fingers and each breath in his throat was coming in louder than the other.

The moment his skin was touched so fiercely by those hands, a shiver spread through House's whole body, as if the internal organs were being mixed up inside of him. That strange and terrifying sensation of falling from a cliff took over him, and he couldn't tell whether it was pleasing or painful; most likely both. His own hands automatically covered Wilson's, but he couldn't decide if it was to take them off or keep them right there. "It's just touch, it's just skin.", he reasoned. After a short but slightly awkward pause, he lets his hands slide down to Wilson's waist, slowly but self-assured. He presses their lips together once more, stopping time, until he opens his eyes to face his friend. "Now that I can feel that you're so _happy_ to be with me, in this hotel room, just the two of us, with your body under mine and your breath becoming more and more irregular, I think we should sleep."

He smirks widely before that priceless picture: Wilson with his hair a bit messed ("Never too messed, it would be impossible with the amount of product he uses in it."), eyes bright and dark, reddish lips and that - he must admit it - cute confused expression.

After a few seconds of nearly dazed astonishment, - more than a normal reaction - Wilson loosens his body in the mattress, breathing out deeply. His eyes are shooting House with something between _You gotta be kidding me_ and its answer _I shoud've seen this coming._ "Of course we should. You read my mind." His sarcastic words sound angrier than he expected, and he just sighs afterwards.

He wasn't even actually frustrated; he could go on just snogging. It was that unfair game he was thinking before, and how House was aware of it. "Get out of me. I need to drink some water." He places his hands in House's shoulders, short breaths and lips pressed. _If he thinks I'll beg or something, he is so damn wrong._

"Oh, you look... _so damn hot_ when you're being sharp." House purrs, speaking in pauses, each word with more emphasis than the other. That was his element, of that he understood - pissing people off, making them lose their patience. It was safe ground. In his eyes, for one able to read them, there was the subtle glimpse of regret and relief, blended together homogeneously. The annoyed look directed at him brought things back to their places, mostly. He wasn't under Wilson's sympathetic concern anymore, having the control of the situation again. He could laugh loudly at his friend's reaction and feel less helpless. With his lips twisted in an almost wicked smile, he caresses Wilson's cheek with the back of his hand, as if part of the mockery, but in fact enjoying being able to do so, but that's his only movement, remaining lain over him.

"Weren't..." Wilson cleans his throat, lowering his hands to House's waist once again. He could pretend those purred words in that hoarse voice didn't affect him, but it was useless and plainly obvious. "Weren't we supposed to go to sleep?" He raised his eyebrows, and his voice is a little more petulant than bothered. "Or out of nowhere I am just too irresistible for you to get off me as I said?" There is defiance in his eyes, rising from amid the darkened lust, when he slid his hands under House's shirt once again; this time, the movement is steady and sudden into it, grasping the skin near his ribs as he hadn't done the first time, when he was both stopped and guided by House's hands within the kiss.

Having anticipated that, Greg avoided closing his eyes in surprise, but it was unavoidable to catch his breath. "Do you really want me to get off you, James?" He raises his eyebrow just like the other have done just a minute before. "I don't think you do... Or maybe what you really wanted to say is that you want me to _help you get off_, am I right?" It was funny to tease Wilson, and the satisfaction it gave him caused the tension to dissipate little by little. "Do you want to sleep now? Fine, I'll go back to my room so you can sleep peacefully. But... Are you sure you'll be able to sleep tonight? I mean, it's been a day full of events of all sorts. Won't the images just take over your mind until you're facing the ceiling asking yourself if it wasn't just your imagination?"

Wilson gives one nervous laughter, keeping on with an open smile out of effrontery, passing the tip of his tongue in the inner part of his teeth. "Oh, House. Like I don't know you at all. Like it isn't a bluff. You can resist all this better than I do, of course. I could feel the difference." He moves his right leg just a bit towards House, for their hips to rub slightly once. "Maybe you are too in control of yourself, or I don't turn you on enough, or even you need some little blue pills already, it's three reasonable options. But maybe it is because you are _shaking_ inside." He hisses the word while his fingertips follow the drawing of the ribs under his hands. "Do you need me to guide you, Greg? Do you need me not to be so condescending and show you what I really want? _Take_ what I really want?" Once more he clung in House's torso, bringing him closer, even though there wasn't any space left in between their bodies.

"Blue pills? Do you know how many blue pills exist? If it's alprazolam, you're saying I'm anxious; if it's fluoxetine or sertraline, you're saying I'm depressed. If it's meclizine, you say I may have a loss of balance. Warfarin for blood clots... I'm sure you're not talking about Viagra, because that would be..." His eyes got lost, and his pauses his speech with an almost dumb expression, with lips still parted, as if hit by a lightning. With a sudden quick movement, he gets up and picks his phone on the nightstand, beside Wilson's. As soon as the he gets an answer on the phone, he starts. "It's sclerosing mediastinitis. He's got the superior vena cava syndrome too, and that's what caused the hemoptysis and the pleural stroke. The pulmonary artery is obstructed; the blood is passing through the peripheral vases, which dilated too much, and that's what caused the swelling." He listens for some time. "Then why aren't you running the tests yet? Are you waiting for me to do it?" He hangs up, slightly distressed, and sighs deeply, feeling the enormous relief after having solved a particularly hard puzzle.

When House finished the call, Wilson was already beside the mini fridge, drinking water from a plastic bottle. There was a smile in his face, an amused one, that came along with weak laughter. He had been laughing since the time House actually separated his bodies and picked the phone, and the moment was somehow enlightening for him, seemed a lot like uncountable times before, and it had that bittersweet beauty that could calm his heartbeats.

And no, he wouldn't sleep well in that night. Probably indeed the images would take over his mind until he was facing the ceiling asking himself if it wasn't just his imagination. House hadn't left even a small hickie in his body to tell him it really happened, and that in the other day he wouldn't just act like they haven't done a thing at all. He wouldn't have that safety, and he couldn't expect any different. He had already stared at the ceiling there, or a few moments when House left him with half an erotic speech resounding in the air and once again physically frustrated, but it all was only able to make him smile.

House. Oh, House, you helpless jerk.

Wilson lousily left the water bottle upon the mini fridge and crossed his arms, leaning on the wall. "Not the Nobel Prize yet, then." He shrugged. "Not impressed."

"Of course you're not impressed." House smiles, looking a little tired. Wilson was particularly charming, leaning on the wall with that half-smile hidden on the corner of his mouth. He could ask _Would you be impressed if I told you this type of thing only occurs when you're near or even when I'm just thinking of you?_, but he wouldn't be able to explain it, that is: if he could ever say something so revealing. It felt too personal for being shared, too abstract to be put into words. As if he needed Wilson to function properly and not only stumble against his own convictions. He walks with the usual difficult to where Wilson is, to capture his lips in a quick goodnight kiss. "I'll leave you with your thoughts and wonders now, _Jimmy_. Hope you don't miss me awfully much."

Their lips touched again and Wilson felt a sting in his chest, a hard lump in his throat as he swallowed hard. When the other separated their faces and stepped behind, Wilson held his wrist. "House." He whispered before looking at his eyes. "I have something to remember you." He narrowed his sight and started grinning. "You read your name in the bar, while we were still playing. Yeah, the post-it. Do you remember the rules, or are you too much of a sissy and will tell me it wasn't on anymore?" He let out House's hand and pointed at him. Smirking finally, what somehow blurred his resignation, he let the words fall as they should, even if it was just to build an innocuous wall for him to lean on and take a breath of everything that happened. "Good night, love. But only come back here wearing pink rabbit ears, I don't date men that don't have word."

House is genuinely surprised, having forgotten the game, the bar and everything that happened earlier outside of that room. With a shocked face, he stares at Wilson, dumbstruck. "You bastard. I... Do I sense some revenge here? Maybe I should have let you fuck me after all." House laughs, actually delighted. Wilson could be very plain and simple to understand, but even if he would really want to rub his grinning lovely face on the floor later, it was always worth to be surprised by Wilson, just like when he filed his cane and made him fall in the middle of the hospital. Chuckling quietly, he picks his cane and walks to the door. Before leaving the room, he narrows his eyes and stares at Wilson. "You... No, forget it. Until tomorrow morning, _darling_."

Not a word came out in response from Wilson, who just smiled and nodded. It was as if he was holding his breath to when the door would be closed, to endure the world crumbling down upon his shoulders. When he was really alone, he stared at the wooden door for long moments, wondering why he couldn't just have asked for House to stay there, sleep by his side and just by that make his insomnia more interesting, filling the gap in that amazing, indescribable night. But the answer came with the weight in his legs, the restless night coming up and taking over his tired body. He walked towards the other door in the room, then. House needed to rest and he... well, he knew he'd have to pick up the pieces. Stopping by the small table, he took by himself another shot of that Pink Rabbit, and it went along with the bitter taste in his throat. Smiling foolishly, still with the shiver in his skin and the burning sensation in his gullet, he opened the balcony door and paced, light-headed and heavy-hearted, leaning on the low wall right after. The electric lights in the city never let it sleep, and maybe Wilson would join them. The fireworks exploded inside his mind, turning his worries deaf for a while, and he even wondered if only them both had heard it. With the next wind blowing in his hair, he decided that, yes, he could sleep in that night. Yes, it was real, and in each way it was drawn perfectly - not because there was such thing, but because the only imperfection could be that night never happened. Yes, that was it.

With that thought, never minding if it would prove itself the biggest lie he had ever told himself or not, he would surrender to his tired muscles and walk in, take a shower and rest his head in the pillow. But... just a moment else. He was so happy it could hurt, and could as well spend some time smiling at the dark sky, picturing colors in fireworks he had not seen, because he was far too busy being inside the arms of the one he thought untouchable, against the lips of the one he thought unreachable. And it was all messy enough, playful and defying enough for him to end it up feeling like home. To feel like he couldn't ever lose that motherfucking jerk he called a best friend. And that was the most important part.

House, on the other hand, felt slightly disappointed. He was sure Wilson would ask him to stay - or did he want it so much that he projected his will onto Wilson, deceiving himself? As he walked into the room where he spend so little time, the air felt colder and his leg, stiff. Wilson would certainly be asleep soon - he was an early bird, his total opposite. His difficulty resided on sleeping through the night, but he had already managed to adapt his sleeping routine so he wouldn't just fall asleep while talking or something like that. After laying on that strange bed, so far away from his own, House let his mind run free - it was easier that way. Thinking about Wilson was unavoidable, since the whole day had been centered on him. The sudden and real possibility of losing him; Wilson's feelings being mercilessly crashed by his reckless words; the apologies; the spontaneous one-night trip to New York; the ridiculous game in the low light of the pub; the weird drink; the initially bitter kiss; the fireworks; the irrational fear facing the who-knows-for-how-long unknown experiences; the annoyance filling him; the epiphany; Wilson's last trick. He wasn't thinking deeply about any of that, just remembering. Even with the sarcasm and the mockery at each other - _Blue pills, how could he dare mentioning that?_ - House could see the astonishment in Wilson's eyes, as if he had just seen all of his dreams come true in the very same moment.

Wilson's happiness wasn't a responsibility he wanted in fact, knowing his own capacity of disappointing and hurting others. If he were to be sincere with himself, he'd admit James had a great influence in his state of spirit, whether it was happiness, worry or mere curiosity. _And now this._ With closed eyes, he could picture those hands firmly grasping his waist, as if trying to dig the fingers between his ribs. The sensation of tingling warmth spreading from his lower abdomen to the rest of his body wasn't unexpected, but it could only mean that, on that moment, his body missed those touches.

Wasn't it weird that, after all those years of friendship, House could count the occasions when they touched? He held Wilson's hand before, but never like that. When he hurt his own hand, in what could have been the worst withdrawal of his life, the younger doctor treated it gently. Maybe he was too lost inside his sick self to realize, but thinking about it with his mind clear, House couldn't say it hadn't calmed him down, making him feel less anxious and less destroyed by pain. A temporary peace on the fires of hell. House sighed. It was hard to come to terms with his own feelings towards his best friend. When he slipped into unconsciousness, almost unaware of that, there was the sound of fireworks exploding in the sky, and he drowsily wondered if his life could get more crazy and nonsense than that.


End file.
